A Thread to Hold
by CapturetheFinnick
Summary: Phil wanted a sensible life, a fireplace and a picket fence, and Dan was a wrecking ball he could simply no longer afford to keep around. But, once you care for someone, it never really goes away acting as a constant thread between the two of them. Divorced!Phan with custody over a child. Angst and Fluff. Trigger warnings; depression, panic attacks, alcohol and divorce
_**I worked on this fic for ages and ages, and in retrospect it's not very fanfictiony, and probably a little boring (great advertising). But nevertheless it's my baby. I wrote this a few months ago now and just never posted it here (instead I posted it on my fanfic tumblr; arcticphan (great advertising)) so here you go. Hope you enjoy!**_

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The car rattled a little as it moved, the wind stroking the side with a hand that was a little _too harsh,_ the rain a little _too hard_ as it hit against the windscreen. The radio was on low, the music pouring and fogging against the windows. Hal's head lulled in his car seat behind, his face pressed against the ledge of the car window. The heat surrounded Dan like a blanket. And the motorway seemed to stretch out forever. Dan checked the rear mirror every thirty seconds just to check Hal was still breathing, his small eyelids fluttering. Outside the world was trying to batter them, but inside it was warm and safe.

It had taken Dan a while to get used to the two-person family unit, to the single father life of pushing Hal at the playground whilst several women looked on fondly (he didn't want to tell them they were barking up the wrong tree), or Hal sitting on a step, the sky darkening and blackening because Dan was late again.

"And why couldn't your father pick you up?"

"He had golf"

Dan rolled his eyes. Like Phil Lester had ever picked up a golf club in his life. Probably too busy boning _Susan,_ or whatever the hell her name was that week. Ink spilled down Dan's cheek as he laughed. He hoisted Hal into his arms, spinning him around and bopping him on the nose, his bones ached and his tie clutched way too tightly at his neck _(you need to make the numbers this quarter, Mr Howell, I'm not going to let you off again),_ he was tired but he needed to be there. After all Hal was all he had.

More ink spilt onto the floor.

After all that was just it. He could do it in the daytime, he could smile and laugh and spin Hal around, he could push bright red swings and run alongside a blue bike with glittery wheels. He could do it, just the odd spot of ink, the ever so slight dark tear. But it was the night he struggled with. It was the night where the moon grew cold and the bed was empty and the ink crept at him like a lapping sea, growing closer and closer until it was his pillow and it was smothering him. He couldn't tell you the number of nights he'd stood at Hal's door, watching him breathe, watching him sleep, and watching the moon fall through the window, hovering over Hal's head. A circle of sleep. A halo. The facts, the figures, they fell through holes in his shoes, were woven into the stitching of his socks. Into the hair gel he'd stopped using, _budgeting._ Or maybe he could just no longer convince himself he was sprightly or young. He had to stand forth and face the sun, face the moon, face the dripping tap and the spreading ink. He had to face it. He was a single father. He was failing at his job. He needed money, he needed help and he needed sleep. _Oh how I envy you._

 _Oh how I envy you_

Jeanine had said the other day, her hair flying from her face and her cardigan well worn _. I wish I only had to have my kids half the time._

But Hal was all he had. And he was growing by the day, his head stretching up the wall, seeking more and more pencil marks, another height chart, _this week you're as tall as a donkey! This week a post box!_ A smile of glee. Dan was good at acting. It was almost his career choice. Until he met Phil. Phil who had made him want more sensible things, Phil who made him want a house and a career and a family who could sit by the fire together. And look how that turned out. Phil sat by the fire. Phil had his family home. With Rachel or whatever her name was.

Dan tried to keep his eyes focused on the road, the lanes blurring into one, the raindrops spilling like ink.

It reminded him of another time. A time of laughter and feet up on the dashboard. A guitar where all the strings were broken;

 _You don't even play, Phil._

 _I might start._

 _What here, on this road trip?_

 _Maybe._ A kiss. The rain beating against the front window as Phil sung along to _toxic,_ Dan a little more turned on by his attempts to do a sexy voice that he would ever admit. His laughter stitched into the wheel, Phil asleep in the leather chair. A memory dripping with ink.

The motorway faded into country lanes, weaving and twisting as if stitching a greater pattern, a bigger picture. Hal was awake, his bright blonde curls twisting wildly above his head, a line in his cheek where the window ledge had been. He thrust his hands erratically, his face lighting up as he spoke.

"And Jane" (it turned out the woman's name was Jane) "is going to take me to a waterpark! We bought a new swimming costume and everything!"

"Well, let's hope she can swim" Dan said, a bitter tone to his voice as he signalled left, turning into a well-to-do neighbourhood filled with picket fences and Hondas. Dan would gag if he secretly didn't want it for himself (instead he got his apartment, with its questionable graffiti on the front door, it's six sets of stairs and his neighbours that always seemed to be arguing over something, but hey _London prices)_

"Don't be silly, daddy, of course she can swim!"

"Are you sure she has enough brain cells?" Dan spat. Hal's face fell as he turned to look out the window again. Somewhere in his head he knew that he shouldn't say that shit to a small child, and that Hal had a tendency to be a blabbermouth (something he definitely inherited from his father). But maybe that little voice didn't know that he'd been driving for nearly two hours, and half of the time he'd just been staring at the back end of a car.

Dan took a breath as he turned the corner.

The house stood before him, its windows painted a perfect pearl white, and a bright green hedge blooming yellow flowers holding the garden together. The door was bright red and in the sunlight it seemed to shine, speaking of idyllic summers and barbecue parties with the neighbours. A perfect family home. One of the many Dan and Phil had looked at together before the ink spilled all over the pages. Dan felt a twist in his stomach. He could almost laugh to himself (though he was sure black ink would splutter between his teeth).

After all these fucking years.

Dan get a fucking grip (but he didn't, instead he parked and avoided swearing like a responsible parent). Dan could never quite describe the feeling he got when looking upon that house. Not to his therapist. Not to his mother. Not even to himself. It was sort of a dark feeling, bitter and twisted as if he wanted to set fire to it and spit; _good riddance._ But it was tinged with something else. Always something else. The dripping ink missed a spot. And it was _that_ Dan could never quite describe.

He took a breath, pulling Hal's backpack from the boot of the car and unclipping him from his seat, taking more time than was probably necessary to hoist the bag onto the boy's back. He felt as if every time he brought him here, he grew a little, his steps a little longer, his back a little straighter, his hair a little higher. He still thought of Hal as 5, maybe 6. With a gulp he remembered that he was turning 8 this coming month (the black ink spilled onto the road).

He knocked on the door, pushing Hal forward and taking a step back (almost putting his foot in the good chrysanthemums). Phil opened the door, his hair stuck up just a little at the back, and one of his sleeves pushed up, the other falling over his hand. _Fuck._ The same sinking feeling in his stomach. Always the same. Because Phil was still breath-taking to him, despite the projected feelings and the ink stained tears that hid in the crevices of his face. He was still breath-taking. And not just because of his looks, of his gentle tilt of the head and his bright blue eyes which seemed to reach inside of him (you could go swimming in those eyes). But because it was _him,_ because he was gentle and kind and warm and he was Phil. And he hadn't done anything to have ever deserved him in the first place.

Phil's face lit up when he saw Hal, his smile widening and his eyes shining as Hal through himself at him, wrapping his arms around Phil and almost knocking him to the ground. Dan had to look away. The gutter started to drip ink.

"Is Jane here?" Hal said excitedly and Dan couldn't help the small cloud that came over his eyes. It upset him. It _upset_ him that his son had a loving step-mother who he couldn't wait to see. Dan was the most selfish of them all. He felt small pools of ink in his eyes.

"She's in the living room" Phil said, throwing a cutting look towards Dan "She didn't want to come out," Dan's eyes dropped to the ground. "not after last time"

Dan gulped.

He remembered it all too clearly; Phil's birthday. _Why don't you just come in for a moment?_ (A glimmer of hope in Hal's eyes, and a more closed off version in Dan's heart). Phil was feeling generous. A speckle of icing on his lip (and a small hickey on his neck). Dan was shaking. Ink spilt up the walls, stretching down his arms like the dark mark, squirming and wriggling with a tell-tale sign. Except less _the dark lord has returned, a_ nd more _you can't cope with this._ Dan didn't know which was worse (at that moment Voldemort was looking rather desirable). _Hey man,_ said Charlie, _haven't seen you in ages._ But the light in his eyes had seemed false, and Dan remembered the last time he had seen him, the fight in the restaurant, the insults ricocheting from the glasses. _You want a drink?_ Charlie said, and Dan poured himself a whisky, hoping the gold would wash away the black ink. It didn't. It made it worse. The ink swirled and screamed around his head, filling his eyes. And she was there. Sat in the corner in the armchair, her perfect, delicate hands floating across the peach fabric. Her laugh was like Gold, a delicate silver chain hanging from her neck. She was an angel with a halo made of silk. The ink flickered. And Dan swore he saw a devilish look. Hal was playing football in the garden and the song started. _Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Phil, Happy Birthday to you._ (The ink screamed in his ears) The candles flickered, mocking him. Phil smiled wider and wider, Hal laughed as Jane snatched him onto her lap. It was too much. Ink dripped from the ceiling, crashing through the door, sapping into the sofa and Dan was rocking back and forth in his mind. It was all too much. He slammed his hand down into the cake, splattering it against Phil's lap, the alcohol raged in his veins and he started to pick up the cake, hurling it over and over again at Jane. With the last piece hurled, he fell to the floor, sobbing and curled into a ball. People started to lead their kids away from _the dangerous man,_ as Phil and Charlie lifted him into the bedroom. Dan passed out.

And Phil was there when he awoke, leaning against the door frame, hair that hinted at hands having been ran through it. He swore he saw a flicker of concern, a sharp tug of driftwood, in the lapping sea of Phil's eyes.

He liked to think he was over that stage in his life. He liked to think he was over it. He liked to think.

He was just lucky they didn't press charges. He couldn't imagine Hal being taken away from him, he couldn't imagine shaking hands in court rooms. Jane was so nice about it. That was probably the worst part, he wanted to believe the black ink's flicker of the devil, he wanted to hate her, to view her as a monster, he wanted Hal to cry when she took him into her arms. He wanted Phil to be miserable with her, wilting and falling into the soil. But it wasn't true. She was nice and lovely and pretty and far better for Phil and Hal than he could ever be. And that was what made the ink crawl.

"Sorry" Dan whispered, and Dan swore he saw a flicker of sympathy in Phil's eyes.

"It's fine" he grumbled. His face perked up again "Say goodbye to daddy," Phil said, and Hal turned around hugging Dan. The ink lodged in Dan's throat. He ruffled Hal's hair, "see you later little buddy". The door shut. And Dan was all alone.

Dan hadn't coped well with the divorce, or the end of the marriage. Or anything ever. He wondered if it would have been different if he'd started seeing his therapist when he was still with Phil. Everything was so blurry from those days. It was like there was two Dans. One driving recklessly, leading the car over the edge of the cliff and loving watching it burn, and another, in the passenger seat, screaming about love and luck and Phil. And the driver won out. Always. It had taken him a while to calm down, to accept the fault, to realise that he had a drinking problem, an anger problem, a stress problem. To realise that Phil had become a scapegoat to him, the steady rock there at the end of the day, the one to project the problems onto. He didn't even want to think about some of the things he'd said to Phil near the end, to Charlie, to Louise, to Cat and Bryony. But mostly to Phil.

Dan was broken for a while. Phil was a rock to project his problems onto, and you never expect rocks to fade away. But he had reached out. He had to remind himself of that. He wasn't hopeless, he wasn't selfish and beyond all help. In his darkest times he had reached out to help himself up, he wasn't a lost cause. It had been four years since the divorce finalised and Dan felt calmer. He could keep the ink at bay most of the time. He still struggled to see Phil's house, to see Jane, to see Hal with them. He still felt stressed at work. But he was doing better.

Maybe what Dan needed was his own Jane. (Or James in his case). It was difficult to see Phil move on, to find someone who could be his second half. Dan had never had anyone like Phil again, a steady rock, a partner to build a home with, to nest and settle down. Truth be told he hadn't had one before Phil either. Phil was his one and only. He had to stop thinking of Phil like that. Dan sat in his car at the top of his road. He had to breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. The rain fell harder (and Dan could see the dark tint). It wasn't that he hadn't _had_ people, he'd had plenty of people back to his flat. Plenty of flings. Plenty of one night stands, that made him feel briefly good before the guilt had set in. _You're somebody's father._ He had to laugh it off, had to watch re-runs of friends under a blanket (it was important to relax). It was important to have a stash of good memories, of him and Hal in an all-day star wars marathon, in a blanket fort covered in _Ferrero Rocher_ wrappers. Of him and Hal at the ice skating rink, Dan slipping and sliding and landing flat on his back as Hal laughed and skated around him in circles. Breathe.

The flat was empty. Well it wasn't. It had sofas and tables and a TV and two small bedrooms. It still had the same fruit bowl sat on the side, the apples winking at him. But they had lost their glow. _Hey, we fade to grey._ Dan could hear the song in his head. And he knew he was being ridiculously cliché and he was the guy sat on the sofa with a beer and a loosened tie and a pile of paper he was ignoring, he was _that guy,_ that guy from every film, every book, every TV show and every goddamn play ever. But sometimes you just needed to sit in silence and stare at the moon _(and that was fucking cliché too but he was past caring)._

Dan's current flat was remarkably close to the second home he and Phil had shared. Partly out of convenience, partly out of money, but partly (okay mostly) for sentimentality reasons. For Dan liked to wander past on occasion and stare up at the window that used to be theirs (and the room that they pretended was Phil's). It was a strange sort of tug that he felt when he walked by, not the same as the white picket fence palace, something old and deep within, being dusted off each time he walked by. A small kind of pain. A small kind of joy. A small kind of sadness. Like hugging someone and realising they're not the same. Like feeling Hal get taller each day. But it reminded him of _old times._ Dan liked the pain, like ripping off a plaster or stubbing a toe it gave him a small sort of pleasure and he didn't know what that said about his mental stability. He knew it was fucked up. He knew he could never mention it to his therapist, or Hal, or anyone. He knew that. But he was rooted. And he was broke. So home it became.

The weeks without Hal were always the hardest. There were offices and desks and staplers and grey and only the same to come home to. He tried all sorts to lift him from a depression (he tried flirting with baristas and office folk). Sometimes Dan thought his spark had died. Sometimes he worried he'd never had one in the first place.

And then before he knew it he was back outside the white house again. The yellow brick road. The gingerbread house, the place of wonder (small pools of black ink leaked from the cracks in the pavement). The warm lights glowed from inside of the living room (and Dan found himself staring at a puddle for far too long).

There was a rupture.

Dan didn't know what it was, but there it was. There was a rupture in the perfect house, the gold lights spilled out, and the green ivy crawled up the walls, and yet he could hear voices, shouting. _Shouting!_ In a respectable neighbourhood! Dan almost laughed (he was satanic). He knocked on the door and was greeted by Phil, his face slightly inflamed, like the time he'd gotten ridiculously sunburnt on a trip to Florida.

 _I told you to put on sun cream! I did! You look so funny! You're still into it. Hmm maybe._

Dan noticed his eyes were slightly puffy, his hair sticking up, one sleeve up, one down. He was a ball of string completely unravelled, desperately trying to pull himself together again. He pulled on a smile (it was fake).

"Ah Dan, how are you?" (Dan tried to stifle a laugh) (Dan was satanic)

"Good thanks, and you?"

"Just the best" Phil said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Hal! Dad's here!" And Hal came running out, a small red backpack pinned to his back like a bill to a notice board,

"Daddy!" He said, rushing into Dan's arms and flinging his arms around his shoulders.

"Hey buddy!" (Dan felt a warmth in his chest and Phil smiled ever so slightly, Dan was sure of it) "How have you been?!"

"So good! We've been learning about stars and space!"

"Ah a favourite topic of your daddy's" Phil said, nodding towards Dan and Dan swore he saw a slight smirk on his face. A glimmer of the old Phil, of the old Phil who lay in the crumpled bed sheets, who threw his hand over his face to block the morning sun, a small grin and a kiss on the forehead, his hair stuck on end in a quiff and his _star wars_ pyjama bottoms ever so slightly crumpled. A small black raindrop. The thought hit at Dan's heart.

He waved Phil goodbye with a smile which was slightly more than he could usually muster. His mind was all over the place as he buckled Hal into the car seat (missing the seat belt buckle three times). What did any of this mean? Was it just his mind over exaggerating? How much was in a smile exactly?

The drive home was both shorter and longer than usual. The rain beat against the car window and splashed along the wheels, Hal chattered about supernovas and red dwarfs and the universe, his mouth blabbering until his head lulled against the window. Until he was asleep. And Dan would usually find it endearing. He would usually love feeling so connected to his son, talking about space whilst driving in their warm safe haven. But something was up, he couldn't quite get that smirk out of his mind. Sure, he was usually anxious when visiting Phil, and on his first day back with Hal again. But this was a little different, it wasn't the small edge in his chest, the slight grip on his heart. It was more of a whole body thing. An outer-body experience almost, as if his brain was running itself, driving the car, listening, and he was floating up on a cloud. Just one fucking smirk. One fucking smirk was enough to bring his whole world down.

He was confused and scared, and felt like curling into himself. He felt like a child like he did when he first left Phil, when he spent days at his parent's house curled up on the couch, vulnerable and small, waiting to be snatched by an eagle or a vulture. Like he did before his parents had enough, said he had to get his life back together and found him a flat. The flat that was the background to all of his best and worst moments. Dan suddenly felt very small. Here he was, unable to deal with a smirk, _a smirk,_ and yet he was an adult. With responsibilities. He had a child in the back. He was piloting a vehicle. He had to cook a meal tonight. Spiral.

The rain thrashed harder against the vehicle as Dan's heart pounded and poured. It was black. It was all black. The rain was thickening, spreading thick, black spots across the windscreen, across the windows, pouring down his face, wrapping around his eyelids, a small black hand forcing itself into his throat.

He was better, no? He was okay, no?

He shook his head.

He breathed.

He couldn't do this.

A small bay on the motorway, the black was thickening. It was coming for him. It was here. It was here. He pulled over, his head falling against the back of the seat. He was powerless, he was shaking. His hands gripped far too hard onto the leather steering wheel. Why was he like this? Why couldn't he cope? Why couldn't he just live and breathe and drive like a regular person? Why did everything have to be covered in this thick layer of anxiety, like cling film, or something stronger, like plastic, that he had to break through just to see the light?

Why was he trapped in the past?

And then he did something which he promised himself he would never do. Not even in his weakest moments. Not even when the black, plastic mask was being forced upon his face. Not even when he stopped breathing. He called Phil.

A knock on the side of the car door. Dan opened his eyes (he heard Hal murmur from behind). And Phil was there, his jet black hair plastered to his face in the rain, his pyjama top covered by an army jacket that was soaked nearly to the skin. But his bedraggled look was not nearly as worrying as the look of pain and fear that was etched on his face. Dan opened the door and Phil was holding his hand. _Its okay you can breathe._

Dan was reminded of another time, on a plane, to Florida. Of an attack that felt as if it were ripping his chest into smaller and smaller pieces. A time that was on the bridge. Between _the good times_ and _the bad times,_ a small pin tipping between the two, falling. Both of his hands in Phil's as Phil whispered. _Excuse me, sir, do you need any help? He's having an anxiety attack. You can do this. You can do this._ And he had looked at Phil's eyes, focused on the blue, clung onto them like a lifeboat in a choppy storm. And somewhere inside his head it was screaming. It was screaming; _never put your faith in one person, never let something so undependable be your lifeboat._ But he had. And maybe that had been his issue since the start, he'd used Phil as a lifeboat, forgotten that he had saved him, and then blamed him for the choppy seas. He was a wrecking ball, a storm cloud, a car set on fire. But he was trying to stop. He promised. He was trying. The black thickened.

"Is Daddy okay?" Hal asked, his eyes wide as he tried to push himself out of his car seat.

"Daddy's fine, it's okay" And Phil was rubbing his thumb along Dan's hand in a way he hadn't since _the day._ And his breathing was improving, his heart slowing, his throat opening slightly more. He relaxed against the chair slightly. And in the wake of the attack, he felt the tiredness, as if it all rushed to him at once, the exhaustion. He could feel it weaving in his blood and his veins. He laid his head back and shuffled over to the passenger seat, letting Phil flop onto the chair, the water pouring into Dan's car, but for once he didn't care. (He tried not to notice the pleased expression in Hal's eyes). He turned to Phil. And Phil turned to him, the anguish falling from his face rapidly to leave behind a face of relief. And they both laughed. The loudest they could. Spluttering against the seats and without reason or rhyme. The laughter swirled through the car, through the air, through the water and Hal was laughing, too, leaning forward eagerly as if to soak in this moment, of both of his Dads, both happy, both together.

The rain fell apart slowly and a sun took its place, forming a small, watery rainbow over the edge of the bridge.

"Thank you so much, again" Dan said, but the moment had passed. Phil smiled (because he was nice), but the thread that had held them together, the kind of spell-like trance had disappeared. Now all they were was soggy and tired and looking upon the purpling sky, with a sense of; what now?

"You're welcome." He paused, "Can you drive" he seemed to add as an afterthought.

"Probably, don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

"I can drive you back if you want."

"What about Jane?"

"Oh." Phil said, looking at the floor. The _strong man_ resolved crumbled a little, Dan hadn't seen Phil so raw and honest and fragile in a while, he hadn't seen his red heart pumping on his sleeve since _the good old days._ "We got in a fight"

"Oh" and the satanic Dan Howell didn't come out. He didn't feel like laughing or celebrating. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the plastic black mask that almost killed him, maybe it was the crinkled eyes of Phil Lester, filled with laughter one moment and sorrow the next. But he didn't feel like laughing. He felt like wrapping his arms around Phil. But he felt it was too much, too much for Phil, too much for himself. This. Does. Not. Mean. Anything. He tried to remind himself, staring at the drab green shrubbery at the edge of the motorway. But he so badly wanted it to mean something. So badly he could feel it in his chest. And he was supposed to be over Phil. And he had been so close (had he? Probably not. He had said Phil's name instead of Jack's the other day and hadn't even cared). "You could stay at mine if you wanted."

Phil looked at Dan. And Dan was reminded of the look from when he threw a fit at the birthday party. The look after, when he was woken up, hungover, his head pounded and eyes puffed up from all the crying. He had remembered a distinct sense of shame and regret and fear. And he had remembered Phil, stood by the door, as if keeping a safe distance, his arms crossed and his eyes looking upon Dan with a sense of sorrow and regret, but also a small hint of fear, of a fear that he still loved him. That he still loved the reckless, broken soul, who drove the car over the cliff, who loved watching it burn, that there was still a wrecking ball in his perfect life, in his perfect house and his family who sat around the fireplace. A slight fear that everything he had built could be taken away because of his old love, his old attachment to a boy who had gone off the rails and tried to take him down with him. He had to remind himself; he wanted sensible things, he wanted a job and a house and a partner, he wanted earth not fire. But looking at those brown eyes, so deep, so vulnerable, almost shaking in their sockets, it was so hard. Because they both wanted the same thing, somewhere, somewhere within the internal system they both longed for the _good old times,_ a longing which was covered in old blankets and newspaper clippings and hidden deep in the attic, but a longing which was there all the same.

"Maybe, just for tonight, I mean you're too tired to drive and I need new clothes and I can help with Hal while you sleep". Phil said his words slowly and carefully, as if he didn't want to say them, as if they were being forced from his mouth like a man with a big stick. He looked tortured.

"Right" Dan said, trying to stop the grin from spreading across his face. Hal's face matched, _I found the pair, daddy!_ (like father, like son)

Dan's heart beat sporadically for the first twenty minutes of the drive. Hal chatted excitedly about supernovas and Phil answered him, the nervous look settling into one of happiness. Dan was staying very still, as if he was scared it would move, as if he were scared it would all fall apart and he'd be back in his apartment with a bottle of knock-off vodka. If he sat up straight he could pretend it was _the good old days_. A road trip to Lego land, a smaller version of Hal strapped in his seat, his face youthful but his will as strong as ever. The subtle fall of _David bowie_ tracks weaving into the air, _it's never too early for a musical education_ Phil had said with a grin, and Dan had kissed him, had ran his hands through his hair (his hair still stuck up like turrets in a castle). The day had been perfect. Well it hadn't. But the memory was. (The memory left out the tantrum over ice cream and the subsequent vomiting experience). A sleepy Hal, a smiley Phil. It was one of his happy places.

Phil's hand reached forward, pressing the button down.

 _Ground Control to Major Tom_

 _Ground Control to Major Tom_

 _Take your protein pills_

 _And put your helmet on_

A single connection. _The good old days._ A moment. Half way between _old_ and _new_ between _fire_ and _peace._ A smile. Everything was going to be okay.

"Oh wow this takes me back" Phil mutters, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Tell me about it, do you remember all those road trips?"

"That's what David Bowie is for" Phil laughs.

"I know this one!" shouts Hal enthusiastically

"I'm not surprised, it's your daddy's favourite."

And it could be black, the leather hands could reach forward, could tear apart at Dan's ears and eyes. But it wasn't. Dan swore he could see the sun coming out again, weak and dim, but there all the same.

" _Ground control to major tom"_ Dan sings along, his voice deep and gravelly. Hal laughs and Phil takes his eyes of the road for slightly longer than the AA road guide recommends. Dan could only smile. He had his family, all the broken bits gathered in one place, even if just for a second. It reminded him of old times, before Hal, before time itself, when he and Phil would sit on the old sofa, trying to imitate the start to _toxic._ (Which would always end in make out sessions).

 _This is Ground Control_

 _To Major Tom_

 _You've really made the grade_

 _And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear_

 _Now it's time to leave the capsule_

 _If you dare_

Of course what was going unspoken about the road trips was the hand holding, the early days of driving when they didn't even have anywhere to go, they just wanted to be with each other, the playing of guitar and the kisses on cheeks (and the occasional unmentionable act which occurred in the back seat.) The romance. But Dan was okay with that, because he was happy, just having his family near him made him happy. He was in a better place. He was in the best place.

The roads started to get smaller and smaller as they neared Dan's apartment (with Phil deliberately ignoring their old apartment as they passed). The rain had stopped beating and had been replaced with a glimmering moon, a full moon. Almost unconsciously, all three of them stopped to look at it, the moon creating a smaller reflection in their eyes, sizzling in their blood.

And then it was there in front of them. Not home. Not warmth. But shelter, a basic instinct, a holding cell. A holding cell Dan was stuck in because he was too old, too tired, too gone to look for something new, for something fresh, for a home. Because, subconsciously, his idea of a home include a Phil, sat in a plush seat by the fire, knitting. Well, Phil didn't knit, but Dan had an overactive imagination and a handful of dreams. Dan liked to sit and count the stars. And sometimes the stars waved back.

The door creaked as Dan pushed it open, his sopping wet hair dripping across the carpet he shared with the neighbour across the hall. The door was a little battered, and Dan could feel the scratched under the palm of his hand, scratches in one and Hal's small fist in the other.

Daryl stood 'watering' the flowers, shifting glances from the corner of his yellowed eyes.

" _Afternoon"_ Dan said with a nod, his cheeks turning a shade of magenta as he was forced to remember last week and the 'noise complaint' after Jack came around. Daryl probably thought Phil was just another. He felt a strange urge to correct him, but he pushed it down, mounting the carpeted steps and into his upstairs apartment. Even through the dark Dan could see just how messy he had left the place and he desperately wanted to shut Phil out to show him he had his life together, truly. He didn't want Phil to think of him as a lonely, broken man who sat alone and drank whiskey when his son was away. He flicked the light on, casting beams over the piles (or 'stacks') of bills on the coffee table, the coffee stain which he could never quite eliminate from the sofa, the unsealed box of cheerio's on the counter top.

"Sorry for the mess"

"That's okay" is what Phil said. What he didn't say was _'it reminds me of our first apartment'._ He didn't say it, but it lingered in his mind, floating like a memory in a pensive, becoming clearer, shooting down and taking ground. The stacks of coffee mugs in the sink, the budget curtains and the unpaid bills being ignored as if he had sown in blinkers, focused on just one thing. Just like _the good old days._ Except now the focus wasn't each other. And the good old days lay coated in ripped silver foil, glistening like a penny at the bottom of a river, always better, always more enticing than they were in reality. The good old days weren't good. Dan knew that. Phil knew that. The good old days included clouds of grey that rained above, included days where Dan's bones sowed themselves into the sheets, where the weight was too heavy and days where the piles of bills got too high that they fell on his chest until he couldn't breathe. The good old days contained drops of alcohol from a waterfall, streaming and streaming, a distraction, and Phil the rocks beneath, battered, a once masterful and beautiful creation reduced to sand. But they were still _the good old days_ in their minds. The human mind tends to be ignorant, and clouded by a sea of emotions.

"Blankie!" Hal exclaimed, running and reaching for a tattered, blue piece of cloth that lay strewn on the floor.

"Ah, so that's where he left it, he's been after that all week!" Phil said, glancing at Dan, and smiling slightly. It was nice. It was kind.

"You'd lose your head if it wasn't screwed on right, huh, Hal?" Dan said, pulling him into his arms and tickling him until his head bounced against the carpeted floor. "Let's get you out of those cold clothes."

Phil perched awkwardly by the door, like a small bird in a new environment. "I'll be back in a sec yeah?" (It was as if he had forgotten to talk to Phil, as if he had forgotten to talk to anyone) "Make yourself comfortable yeah?" he waved vaguely in the direction of the tattered sofa "the kettle's umm there, sorry about the mess again" Phil nodded and Dan lingered a little too long before ushering Hal into his bedroom that had lay empty, like a dormant volcano, like a dog waiting for his master to return.

Hal's hair was curling at the ends like Dan's always did in the rain. Sometimes Dan forgot he wasn't their biological child. Just because he could see so much of them within the child. The way his hair curled, or the way his tiny fingers pattered over the piano, his small tongue sticking out from the side of his mouth when he was happy (another relic from the _good old days)._

"Better get you to bed, huh, bud?"

The sun was setting against the window frame, a day complete, a day over and drawn into the red dusk. A small picture sat in a wooden frame, from a time between, caught in a time lapse, half _the good old days_ with the mugs in the sink and half the days of fading, of a fire buzzing, of occasional moments in front of the warmth, of a small voice and a small face that came at the wrong time. _A selfish decision._ The words had stung. Dan heard it sometimes in the shadows at night. Hal was happy. Hal was happy. Hal was happy? A picture in a frame of a smaller boy, his curls bouncing from his head, his grin big and wide against the sea front, a lone seagull, and two dads, two smiling dads, kissing his head and smiling. One of the last days.

"He's in bed huh?"

Phil hadn't removed his coat, the top button unravelling and his hood sitting awkwardly against his head like an extra limb that was never removed. His hands seemed to be threading and unthreading. Dan remembered this from _the good old days,_ or _the average old days, the bad old days._ Whatever. Sometimes Dan was caught up in his own mental state he forgot about Phil and his anxiety, his awkwardness. He had forgotten he had chosen a simpler life, a life where he wasn't attached to a wrecking ball.

"Can I get you a drink?"

Phil smiled.

Phil's laughter seemed to paint the walls, sticking down the old peeling wallpaper and fixing the cracks in the wooden floor. And Dan's. The walls seemed to breathe a heavy sigh of relief, like Maria in the sound of music (an old time favourite), _thank you for bringing music back into this home. This house hasn't known music for a long time._ The end of a film. End of the film worthy. But the end of the film isn't the end of the story, the peak moment isn't the end. The stage of laughter is an intermediate action, no finality, no glorious entrance, a stage in a life cycle. Dan remembered that. But for once, instead of feeling it creeping in his chest, the weight, the pressure, he let it roll from his shoulders like a raindrop down a petal, and he felt it hit against the floor, making more cracks. The laughter hit against the coffee mugs filled with tea that had long gone cold. Dan tried to stifle his laughter behind a pillow, for Hal's sake, which only made Phil's eyes light up more. The laughter cleared their chests, coughed out the cobwebs, spluttering out the dust from the edge of their throats. A spring cleaning in the middle of the winter.

The darkness was thickening and Dan could see Phil's eyelids fluttering like the wings of a butterfly.

"Take my bed, I'll sleep on the sofa"

"Of course not!" (Dan had forgotten how damn polite he could be)

"Phil"

"Dan"

"Philip" he giggled

"Daniel"

"Take the bed, the sofa's fine for me"

"No" Phil said, leaning in closer.

"Phil…" Dan said leaning in closer, until their heads were close and the light was drained from their eyes to be replaced with a raw honesty, a raw confusion, a raw threat of light tying their pupils together. Once loved never forgotten, forever a part of the other, like it or not. No laser removal for this birthmark. The moon glared. _This is a bad idea._

Dan moved forward, placing his lips against Phil's, kissing him. It was slow and awkward, a sense of familiarity and yet also unfamiliarity, like a re-boot of a favourite old show, or a re-make of a film. The same, but different. They were older, things were not the same. Yet a thread still hung above them, trailing them, tugging them together, a trial of light threading through their hair.

They broke away and Phil smiled a little, hiding behind his hands.

"I'm not sure we should have done that" he said, staring at the cracks in the floor.

"Sorry"

"I'll take the bed." Phil said with a gentle sort of finality, "Goodnight, Dan"

"Goodnight Phil."

A feeling of what?

Dan's hair stuck up at all ends, his eyes sagging, grey around the edges like a picture fading from view. One pyjama leg had rolled itself up and his back ached from sleeping on the sofa. He saw himself in the mirror and heard Phil stir in his room, feeling a strange urge to grab a comb (which Dan most definitely didn't own) and sort his hair out, an itch in his arm to wash his face and find his clothes. A weird urge to impress. He guessed. The sun glinted against the mirror.

Phil exited his bedroom, his skin glowing. Because of course, of fucking course Phil would look perfect in the morning with his stubble and his hair slightly rumpled (Dan had forgotten). Breath-taking. Of course. Of course Phil was kind and optimistic and funny and loyal and a great father and downright fucking beautiful. Dan didn't want to look at him directly, a bright sun.

"Sleep well?" Phil said, breaking the silence.

"Kind of." A pause, "Is Hal still asleep?"

"Yup"

A silence as Dan continued to rummage through the cupboards, looking for something to give out for breakfast (he could have sworn he wasn't usually this ill-prepared).

"Do we need to talk?" Phil said, catching onto his eyes.

"I suppose not." Dan said, "You have Jane, I have umm Jack"

Why the hell did he say that? Why. The. Hell. Did. He. Say. That. Jack was a fling, nothing more. He didn't want any more, he had made that clear. They had both made that clear. Damn the fire in his veins, desperate to one-up Phil, desperate to stay ahead. Desperate to impress. Desperate to stand on the top of a branch, the top of a tree in a forest, desperate to scream _I'm okay! You can come back to me Phil!_ Whether it was true or not.

"You're with someone?" Phil said. Dan tried to read his tone, a little surprised maybe, maybe disappointed (although that was probably Dan's small amount of optimism coming through).

"Not really."

"Oh."

"But you still have Jane, no?"

"I don't know"

The morning light drew a line between them across the counter, capturing the dust settling and fluttering across the kitchen stove. Dan subconsciously put the flour down.

"You don't know?" Dan said quietly, "Is everything okay?"

And he cared. He generally cared. He was past being bitter. He wanted him to be happy. That was all, everything simplified and lay across the table, captured by the small shaft of light. Just small, just simple and yet somehow wide and difficult.

"Not sure," Phil looked at the floor, "We got in a fight"

"Oh I'm sorry" Dan said, awkwardly draping his arms across Phil's shoulder before pulling him into a warm hug, their threads stitching them together. If you care for someone, an element always remains. And Dan cared about Phil, more than anything else.

"But it's not just that..." Phil said

"Dad!" Hal interrupted, running towards Phil, Phil picking him up into his arms, "You're still here?"

"Always," he said, pressing a small kiss against his cheek.

Hal's eyes widened, "Do you live here now?"

Phil seemed to stiffen a little, looking towards Dan, who reached forward to kiss Hal's cheek, "Not quite buddy, Daddy's just here for a visit."

"Oh"

He hated seeing Hal's face sink like that. Like the falling water shooting from a cliff. He grabbed him, tickling his ribs and chasing him round the kitchen, hearing his small squeals which seemed to splatter more layers onto the freshly painted walls. He swore he saw Phil in the corner of his eye, a soft glance falling over the two of them, like the sun of a bright summer's day, and for the first time in a while Dan felt like a family. The three of them in the bare kitchen, like he had dreamed of back in _the good old days,_ when Phil had fallen asleep in the crook of his arm, the TV still flickering in the background as his eyes fluttered as he was dreaming.

"Can we have pancakes?" Hal said, his face lighting up.

"For you, buddy? Anything." He picked him up, swirling him around.

Hal's eyes flitted between the two of them like he was observing a tennis match, watching the two of them flip the pancakes, their laughter erupting a splattering the kitchen cupboards above. He watched the small slips of smiles, the small, shy glances like kids in a library, deliberately not looking. The small thread winding and winding and jumping for joy, a small flower blooming once more, pushing through the earth, desperate to make it. The sun was bright, strong, filtering through the window and dancing across the kitchen. The sun was on their side. Phil caught the pancake and Dan's mouth dropped open, his eyes bulging,

"Oh my god, you did it!"

And Hal ran towards him, Dan picked him up and span him around, throwing him up in the air, the golden halo of his hair bouncing in the sun light like the shimmering waves of the ocean and Phil beamed with a smile which was so strong it could fall from his face and splatter to the floor (like the spilt yolk across the tiles). And Hal reached out for Phil, bringing the three of them together. A family, a scrapbook full of memories; once we were here. Once we loved. Once we existed. Once we braved to face the sun.

And Dan leaned forward, kissing Phil, softer and smaller and shorter than the one from before. Hal howled with laughter. The past still existed, still sat on a shelf, perfection was impossible. But the weak beams were growing brighter and spring was come again. And maybe, just maybe, this time it would work. The darkness pushed at bay.

The future wasn't a place, it wasn't anything concrete. It was an idea. An idea nobody could think of, nobody could change, nobody could destroy. _Energy cannot be created or destroyed only transferred._ The future was faceless, but it was coming all the same. It was coming with three faces, Dan, Phil, Hal. A family. Not a family by the fireplace, with the white picket fences and the matching garages. Not the _sensible_ life and not the wrecking ball, just the three of them in their cocoon. And they would emerge; happy.


End file.
